Outsider
by hopelessromantic99
Summary: To pay for her father's crimes of treason, Lyanna Davenshaw has been sent from her home in England to live as a ward of the French state. But despite the friendships she builds and the affection she arouses of a certain bastard son, she must always remember her place as an outsider. BashxOC, MaryxFrancis
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, all! I am very happy to publish something after a seven-month hiatus. I have 10 stories planned out in my head, but once I sit down to write them, they just magically disappear.**

**I'm still very hesitant about this idea because it's been done so many times already (and _Reign_ has just started!) so I kept this first chapter short in an attempt to interest readers but not to bore them if they aren't. I hope you are the former! :)**

* * *

_**Lyanna**_

Skies above didn't open up that day. They reminded her of the grey clouds of home, of the constant storm that always seemed to be gathering but never thundered. It was as though the clouds had followed her into this strange land, this enemy land. They comforted her, and if she tried hard enough, she could imagine that she was simply on a ride in the countryside. The reality was quite different.

As punishment for her father's crimes of treason in the English government, she was torn from her home and sent to live as a ward in a stranger's house. She'd been bought and sold like an animal, doubly used as a peace negotiation with France. She wouldn't show fear. The English may pride themselves in their navies and their armies, but a daughter of the Anglo-Saxons did not show fear.

Because there are always far worse things to fear.

Sir Gavin, the knight escorting her to the French court, had hardly said anything once their barge had docked on the mainland. The only sounds she'd heard that ensured his presence was the steady clop-clop of his horse on the Kingsroad. She could tell that he too felt uncomfortable on enemy territory, even in peaceful times. Sir Gavin was younger than most of the knights; in fact, overseeing Lyanna's journey to France was his first assignment. She had thought him quite handsome, with flaxen hair and green eyes that danced when he was laughing. Privately she felt that it was a waste that he had chosen to become a knight- with his looks alone he could marry very well.

The sky was darkening steadily, the clouds turning into a dark bluish-grey. Far in the distance she could see a shadow of a dark, block-shaped structure; she looked to Gavin, who nodded. He'd confirmed what she didn't have to ask.

They had arrived.

* * *

_**Sebastian **_

The court was abuzz with anticipation. It had been several months since they had been informed that they were to be hosting an Angle for who knew how long, and many couldn't decide if they were excited or disgusted. It would certainly be a change of pace, having an Angle at the seat of French power, but the English were a great enemy of the French. It wasn't often that French people interacted with those from the British Isles, even in times of peace. Stories ran rampant of the barbarians that lived in the north, of those that still worshiped the pagan gods and hunted with spears.

Sebastian often heard these stories on the tongues of the ladies of the court, who would stand at feasts holding a goblet of wine, spreading them in hushed whispers and wide eyes. They always stopped abruptly whenever he entered the conversation, because ladies weren't to be seen speaking of such harsh things.

But now this prisoner would be something new for them to gawk at. No one knew if Gideon Davenshaw had sent a daughter or a son. If it was a son, the ladies reasoned, they could at least hope he was handsome. But a daughter, they said, would be fun to play tricks on, and easier to mislead.

Sebastian stood in front of the Main House with the family. It wasn't a formal event, but it was custom to welcome any addition to the court, enemy or not. A feast had been prepared to celebrate their arrival, though false smiles would be adorning those loyal to the state.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Henry shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

"They're late."

"What else do you expect from the English?" came Catherine's snide reply.

The words had hardly left her mouth when horse hooves sounded in the distance. Sebastian looked to the end of the family, where Francis was standing rather stiffly next to the queen. Once, a long time ago, he had wished to stand next to his half-brother, the brother he'd known all his life.

There were only two riders, a knight and a woman. They stopped in front of the family, who gazed back out towards them. The king spoke first.

"Friend or foe? Name yourselves."

"Friends, sire. I am Sir Gavin Chaya, knight of the Kingsguard of England. I bring to you the youngest Davenshaw girl to be your ward."

"Come forward."

The knight dismounted first before turning to help the girl, clumsily lifting her from the horse and to the ground. Their quick steps cut through the cool air as they approached. Upon closer inspection Sebastian found that the woman was actually a girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. Sebastian was always intrigued by a pretty girl, and this one was no exception; she looked fair enough, with dark chestnut hair that ran down her back in smooth waves. She was wearing a simple gown, but the material looked nothing short of expensive. Nobility, perhaps?

"Welcome to our home, Sir Gavin."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Gavin replied stiffly. "I would like to present your new ward, Lyanna Davenshaw, the youngest daughter and third-born to Gideon Davenshaw."

The girl managed a curtsy. "I am honored to become your ward, Your Grace."

Sebastian almost laughed out loud. He knew that her words were empty, but here she was with a smile on her face and acting like it was a treat.

"Welcome to France, Lyanna Davenshaw. This is my queen, Catherine, and behind me are my sons Francis and Sebastian." Sebastian's heart swelled with his father's words before deflating. Did he _always_ have to come second?

"I am grateful for your kind hospitality." Her voice carried over the clearing, and Sebastian was surprised at her confidence. Surely Gideon Davenshaw wouldn't send his daughter, who was very much a woman, to be a prisoner in France. Surely.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for the positive feedback! I'm so happy you all like the story so far! :D**

* * *

**_Sebastian_**

Pity.

He'd never felt pity for anyone at the court, because there was no reason to; many were well-off, and many were well-married. But seeing the deadened look in the girl's eyes as she pushed her food around her plate caused the emotion to arise in his heart.

Because he knew what it felt like, to not belong.

He couldn't help but glance at her every so often, knowing full well that she'd never return them. Francis, who sat across from her, managed to engage in some polite conversation with her, but otherwise no one spoke to her. Sebastian was more unfortunate with the seating arrangements- the woman sitting across from him kept chattering on and on, never stopping for so much as a breath. It was clear she was trying to flirt, and under normal circumstances he would've done so in return. But these were not normal circumstances.

When the ward had risen, presumably to retire to bed, she had done so with the face of one heading to the Gallows. As she passed he caught her by the arm, but with the way she flinched one might think he had struck her. He hadn't planned it. It just happened.

"You are safe here," he said to her, green eyes meeting her brown ones. "No one will hurt you." It was the first time he'd seen her look at him, and she stood there, unmoving, unyielding, to his look of concern.

"I can take care of myself," was her stony reply as she jerked her arm from his grasp.

And then she was gone.

* * *

**_Lyanna_**

Another day.

She felt as though she was counting the days she spent in a prison cell, they passed so slowly. Her days were filled with the most mundane activities, and she often excused herself to bed straight after supper.

Her father must have truly hated her to send her here.

The sunlight filtered down from the large rose window that dominated the top of the Queen's Tower. Its glass was the clearest and finest a craftsman could ever hope to produce- because only the best was offered to the Queen of France.

Today that queen and her eleven ladies-in-waiting, chosen for their good breeding, fine manners, and gracious speech, were scattered around the room, sitting on padded chairs and cushions pushed together for better gossiping. They worked at their embroidery as a musician played the lyre quietly in a corner, their soft murmuring being the only thing penetrating the music. Catherine sat in the center, flanked by two women and a master craftsman who stood off to one side for consultation.

Lyanna kept her head bent towards her work, meticulously pulling the needle through the thread over and over again. Her hands fared much better when they were clutching the leathery straps of horse reins; it was only morning, but she had already pricked herself no less than five times. She knew she had to be more careful, but she was so bored by embroidery that she didn't much care.

She found that she didn't care about much these days, the feeling only intensified by being inside the French court. The feast held upon her arrival was an uncomfortable affair for everyone present, including Lyanna, even though it was held in her honor. The ladies all fawned over Sir Gavin, casting suggestive glances in his direction as he dined. She too attracted attention, but of a different kind. Whispers narrated her every move, wide eyes watching as she handled a knife and fork. Did they think she was some kind of sideshow, a new addition to its House of Freaks? At this thought she stabbed into the fabric with much more vigor than initially needed, creating a button-sized hole.

_Calm. Be calm._

She knew she should be grateful to the king and queen for treating her with such kindness, and she was- it was just no one else was. As she followed the Queen's ladies through the corridors to get to the Queen's Tower, all she could see were hands cupped around mouths as they whispered, smirks leering at her in the morning sunlight. When they had sat down they had all blubbered over her like she was a newborn child:

"Oh, Lyanna, you poor dear, let us show you the way the French sew."

"I don't know what they teach you in England, but surely it can't be the same as our way."

"Can you measure? I'll measure your thread if you like."

They all thought her some kind of ill-bred savage, as a lower-classed idiot servant girl. But she set her jaw and refused all their offers. They peppered her with phrases like, "Are you _sure? _I _really _don't mind," their voices going an octave higher on the emphasized words, but by then she was already deliberately bent over her cushion, determined to show them that she could sew just as well as any of them.

"Oh, dear me, Lyanna... what have you been thinking to let your cushion become so... tangled?"

She looked up to see Katlyn, the eldest daughter of one of the queen's cousins. She seemed to be the ringleader of the court ladies and always seemed to have a little sneer reserved just for Lyanna.

"Not of court gossip, surely," Lyanna replied. Katlyn's lip curled.

"Be mindful of your tongue, Davenshaw," she hissed. "Or you will be sent straight back to England in disgrace."

"My family is already disgraced, Lady Katlyn," she said curtly. "Perhaps your gossip is not up to date."

Katlyn's face flushed scarlet, and she was about to answer when another voice rose up above the others.

"Oh, bother, I'm out of thread."

Lyanna, happy for a chance to go, leapt to her feet. "I'll go fetch some more." She smiled at the woman who had spoken, whose name was Karen, or Sharyn, or something along those lines.

She returned her smile. "Thank you, my dear. I believe Nostradamus- our court physician- has the key to the linen storage. Tell him Lady Gracelyn has sent you for it."

_Gracelyn_, that was her name. A very southern name in Lyanna's opinion, but she seemed kind. Lyanna laid down her sorry excuse of embroidery on her chair and paused long enough to curtsy in front of Catherine, who nodded in absentminded permission for the girl to leave.

"Thank you, your grace," she said, dropping another curtsy and hurrying across the wooden floor as quickly as she could while taking the approved, ladylike steps. Her steps had never been very long to begin with, especially compared to the great lengths her brothers could cover, but now she was supposed to go even more slowly. _A lady must not walk, but _glide, the ladies had told her on her way to the tower. _Do not move your arms at your sides- simply hold them in place, and glide._

For heaven's sake, she was a human, not a swan. People _walked._ People even occasionally ran. But not ladies. Never ladies. Once she was out the door she returned to her normal pace, swinging her arms as much as she pleased.

She was halfway across the courtyard before she realized that she didn't actually know where Nostradamus' chambers were, if he had any. She couldn't go back to the tower and ask, because that would give the ladies more of a reason to snicker behind her back- and she refused to give them that satisfaction. So, left to her own devices, she turned down corridors on pure instinct only, quickening her pace as she went. Surely the court physician would have a sign outside his door. But as she walked she found no such sign adorning any door, or any sign at all for that matter.

Frustration was beginning to seep in. _Stupid filthy French castle without any signs- s_he turned the next corner in a huff and nearly ran into someone, failing to stifle a small shriek of surprise.

* * *

**_Katlyn_**

How dare she.

How dare that- that _ward _walk in the Queen's Tower and speak to her that way. She, Katlyn, was one of the two ladies-in-waiting that were directly related to the Queen, and therefore had some authority over the others. Perhaps words like that were allowed in England, but she was in France now. She would have to adhere to the rules of the educated, not those of her savage homeland... if they had had any to begin with. When they had met Katlyn hadn't even shook her hand, not knowing what dirt was still stuck under those disgusting fingernails she'd have.

But yet, as filthy as she was, Bash couldn't keep his eyes off her.

Katlyn sat across from him at the feast, and they'd talked- or rather, she'd talked. He listened and he answered her questions adequately, but his eyes would flick over to Lyanna's direction, sometimes more than once per sentence. But it wasn't love in his eyes, nor was it lust. It was something else, something that Katlyn couldn't put her finger on. But she was certain of one thing. Bash had never looked at her like that, at least that she knew of.

It was a strange feeling. Katlyn had never had trouble before keeping a man's attention. Many agreed that Katlyn Geoffrin was the most beautiful of all Catherine's ladies-in-waiting, and certainly the most captivating. She loved to flirt and she loved to charm, but she loved even more to do it with Bash. She had even fantasized that she and him might marry someday, because a bastard marrying royalty would legitimize him. So Katlyn saw no reason why he shouldn't just get on with it.

Until Lyanna came.

When Bash had spoken those few words to her as she was leaving, Katlyn heard the change in his voice. It had become more... heartfelt, as though he understood her emotions exactly.

_Which is impossible, _Katlyn thought stubbornly as she weaved her threads. _They barely know each other. _

Katlyn set her jaw as she bent over her embroidery once more. It was time people started realizing that she didn't play games. And when she did...

...she always won.


End file.
